


Nul Ne Sait Le Pays D'où Je Viens

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against all odds, Javert's suicide attempt fails. Instead of losing his life, however, he loses his memories, which means he has to find a way to survive in a gutter where he does not he belong, with people who love to take advantage of him, with the burning question who he is and what is right and what is just. All he has to aid him in this quest are his morals and the memory of dark brown eyes, which surely belong to the man who saved - and not condemned - his life, right? Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=1010721#t1010721.html) lovely kink meme prompt.

Certain things are still there, are still present in a mind that was sucked into the twisted spiral of the void, downwards the dark and endless maelstrom of pain.  
  
He remembers the feeling of his heart shattering into thousands of pieces. He remembers tears stinging in his eyes, hot and wet on his cheeks, remembers the ice-cold water of the river he - fell into? Got thrown into? His mind is clouded, his thougts confused, and the bitter taste of drowning tunes out everything else.  
  
He is lying on his side, drifting in and out of a darkness that threatens to devour him. It appears that he has been washed ashore, for he neither remembers swimming nor fighting against the tides. His clothes are sticking to his skin, wet and cold and he shivers at the chilly gusts of wind that make him feel like he is freezing alive.  
  
It is dark in front of his eyes, for his eyelids feel too heavy to be moved. Every single bone in his body hurts and his limbs seem to weigh at least as much as the guilt of a thousand sins.  
  
He wonders where that thought comes from, for he is sure he is no priest, though _what_ he is escapes his mind every time he tries to reach out for this particular piece of information. It washes away like the river, runs through his fingers like fine sand. His mind is spinning.  
  
 _I am_ , he thinks. _And I think, therefore I am. But what?_  
  
Bile rises in his throat as the understanding dawns on him that he does _not_ know.  
  
 _I am. I think._  
  
Panic floods up in his mind and it tastes like the water that had almost claimed his life. He remembers a flash of dark brown eyes that hold gentleness and pity and the endless sadness that is born within a despairing soul. There is nothing else left inside of him.  
  
 _I think and therefore I am, but I think and do not know, therefore I am not?_  
  
He shivers again, but this time it has nothing to do with the cold. And when he feels the darkness shroud his thoughts and wash his consciousness away, he is almost grateful for it.  
  
-  
  
None too gentle hands grab his shoulders, roll him onto his back.  
  
"So it's gotten you, too, eh?" A man's voice. One he does not recognize, but then - let's be honest - there is not much left of his memories anway. Quick, long fingers fumble at the buttons of his collar, but not for long, for the man simply tears them off (he can hear the string rip apart), while muttering something he fails to understand in its meaning. "Not like a few buttons will lower the price."  
  
 _What price?_ he wants to ask, but can't. However, when his collar gets loose, it feels like a weight being lifted off his body, a chain removed from his neck. He can breathe again - and he does, greedily sucking in the air in audible gasps. He opens his eyes.  
  
The man jerks back and raises his arms in defense. "You're alive?" he almost shouts, his eyes darting from left to right, only to settle on his face. "Good! That is ... good. I saved you!"  
  
He sits up and blinks a few times until he stops seeing twice. Then he dares to take a closer look at the man in front of him: hair graying at the temples, clothes old and dirty, the stink of a sewer draped over him like a blanket. "Did you?" he asks and flinches at the unknown sound of his own voice. He remembers to breathe, concentrates on the task. He fears he might scream in panic otherwise.  
"Thank you," he says, because he feels it is expected of him. _Thank you_ instead of _Who are you?_ and _Who am I?_ and _Why should I believe you? I don't feel safe and saved at all._ "I ... " He hesitates. There is no warmth in the man's eyes. They are so unlike those in his memory. They must belong to someone important. To the one who really did save him, maybe. It does not matter for now, though, because not only has he no idea where to find his savior, he also has more urgent matters to attend. Like surviving. Like finding out where he belongs.  
"I would love to repay your kindness," he says - and sees something flicker in the man's eyes, something sharp and greedy that makes him resemble a vulture; preying on his own kind, tearing flesh and bone and skin apart, swallowing avariciously, without mercy or guilt -, "but I neither have a wallet nor a name and address to go to retrieve it."  
  
"But you-" The man stops abruptly, confusion visible on his face. "You have no name?"  
  
"I seem to have misplaced it," he answers and manages a laugh that sounds sad even to his own ears. "And I ... have forgotten where to look for it."  
  
The man licks his lips in hesitation. Then he says: "It is unwise to be left alone in the dark. Especially during a night like this one."  
  
"What is so dangerous about this night?"  
  
"Revolutionairies. They are being shot like animals. The police -" He pauses. Looks him over. "I know you."  
  
"You do?" He should be ashamed at how hopeful he sounds, but he finds he does not care. Maybe this strange man will save him, after all.  
  
"You were on the barricades. A spy for the people. That's why you're wearing this."  
  
This is a black uniform that must belong to the forces of the law. He bites his lower lip. To wear this without having the authority to do so feels like ... he is disgracing the garments. Thoughts arise in his mind. He is a spy? He fights against the law? Is he a criminal, then? It is a thought that makes his heart hurt and soul scream in agony, but he thinks that men cannot change, and if this is what he is, then so be it.  
  
"If you want some free advice: Stay away from the police. They will skin you alive. Not a nice thought, eh?"  
  
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth and he tastes the river as he says: "I must thank you again, good sir."  
  
"Thénardier," the man says with a grin.  
  
"Thank you for your kindness, Monsieur Thénardier."  
  
"Don't think me a saint. Even kindness has a price." The man - Thénardier shows a toothy grin. "But let's not dwell on that for now, eh? Let's get you out of that uniform and into something that suits men like us more. Let's get you warmed up. You will find it's good to have a friend like me."  
  
He is not too sure about it, but since everything is better than to be on his own, he does stand up - slowly, for the sudden movement makes his head spin -, and then he follows Thénardier into the dark alleys of the city. Away from the stars and the light and the river.  
  
-  
  
The building Thénardier leads him to is a wreck; paint coming off in large chunks, windows barred with wooden planks to keep the cold outside, door almost hanging off its hinges. It is better than nothing, though, so he barely hesitates a second before heading inside.  
  
It is one of his not so good ideas.  
  
A woman shrieks - the sound like nails on a blackboard -, and then he is seized by the arms. Two men have him in an iron grip (and the situation is somehow so paralyzing in its familiarity that he completely forgets to struggle), while the woman screams at Thénardier.  
  
"Why did you bring the police here? Are you mad?" she yells as one of the men growls a low threat, something about killing him quickly before anyone can miss him, and he tries to protest, but nobody listens to him anyway.  
  
Thénardier lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Cease your yelling, woman! He isn't dangerous. He is just ... a wandering soul who has lost his memories. As good Christians, we can't exactly leave him on his own, can we?" He slips his arms around her waist and presses a kiss to her cheek. "Really. When have I ever done something that might endanger us?"  
  
"Every damn day of our lives," she mutters, but leans into his embrace (he has the urge to ask if that might be the time for their - comrades? Friends? Henchmen? to release him and please stop looking at him as if they want to kill him and then loot his corpse, but he decides to keep his mouth shut). She waves in his direction, prompting the men to let go of him, which they do reluctantly, while still glaring daggers at him.  
  
He rubs his arms, one after the other, trying to get some feeling back into them. "Thank you," he says, because, well, what else can he say?  
  
"Think nothing of it." Thénardier nods at a pile of clothing lying under a table in a corner of the room. "Just get out of that blasted thing, before anyone else gets the stupid idea stuck in their head that you're a real police inspector, eh?"  
  
The men snigger at this, and he does not understand why. He can see nothing funny about it. However, he has alreay learned that it is better to stay silent. Quickly, he crosses the room and kneels down, shuffles through the garments which reek of blood and sweat and tears and he wonders just what happened to the people they once belonged to.  
  
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Thénardier barks, and he feels their eyes on him, their gazes burning on his skin as he undresses with quick movements to hide his uncertainty. The uniform slides down his shoulders and to the floor. The sudden cold makes him shiver, makes him feel exposed, feel like he is losing some part of his already shattered mind and soul. He pays it no mind and grabs the first thing that might fit - dark brown pants with a matching shirt that misses a few buttons and a black coat for which he is grateful -; he hasn't even finished putting them on when Thénardier snatches the uniform from the floor and stores it underneath the shabby bed he and his - wife? She is his wife, isn't she? They kissed, after all. That most likely makes her not his sister - occupies. "Go to sleep, the lot of you. We've got lots of work to do tomorrow. Montparnasse, make a little space for our guest, will you?"  
  
Montparnasse doesn't. He is sprawled on the floor, looks up from underneath his bowl hat, gives a sly and unfriendly smile - and does not move a single inch.  
  
Since there is nowhere else to stay, he sits down next to the remaints of the door, draws his knees up to his chest and huddles up in the coat to keep warm. When Thénardier extinguishes the sole candle in the room, everything is left in total darkness.  
  
-  
  
Sleep fails to come that very night. He lies in the dark, eyes open, muscles tense. He does not feel safe in here, worries that - if he were to fall asleep - he might be woken by a knife at his troat, cold steel biting into the flesh of his neck. It's not an outcome he would like.  
  
The sound of snoring lies in the air, as well as the hushed voices of the Thénardiers.  
  
"What did you bring him here for, anyway?"  
  
"Well, since your good-for-nothing daughter has wandered off to god knows where, we're one man short."  
  
"Don't forget she's your daughter, too. Which explains why she's so useless."  
  
Thénardier sighs (and is surely rolling his eyes). "She's most likely seeing that rich guy she's so enamoured with."  
  
"I should be with a rich man, too. Instead I'm stuck with you."  
  
"Very funny, my dear."  
  
"Really? It wasn't supposed to be."  
  
"Look, will you just - I mean ... " Another sigh. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing. And I know what our new _friend_ can be useful for."  
  
"I hope you're right."  
  
He hopes so, too.  
  
-  
  
 _He is surrounded by iron bars, trapped like an animal in its cage. It's not scaring him, though. He is used to being kept prisoner. In a way, it makes him feel safe. His fingers - small, so small. When have his hands ever been this small? - curl around the bars in front of the only window in the cell and he presses his face to the bars to take a peek outside, to get a glimpse of the sunlight that is shining so brightly (it almost hurts his eyes), otherworldly. It promises a life he's never seen before._  
  
 _There are people outside, marching in rows of two, carrying heavy weights. He wonders who they are and what stories they could tell - for he knows everyone has a story to share._  
  
 _He knows because she told him so. She. The woman, who is always there with him. She is a constant in his life, like the iron bars. Though unlike them, she is there to protect him from the outside world. She is his teacher, his friend and guardian alike. When he looks at her, she always smiles a smile full of love. She tells him stories of the far-off lands she's seen, and when he promises that they will go there together, visit all these countries again one day, he can see her smile grow weary, and though he does not undertand why, it makes his heart ache in sadness._  
  
 _She sings him to sleep every night, cradles him in her arms, and sometimes her fingers brush through his hair when she believes him asleep. "Whatever may happen, my son," she whispers in nights like these, "remember that you are loved."_  
  
 _One day, she is not there anymore, and nobody tells him, because they believe him too young to understand, he knows that she is gone forever. And with her, some part of his heart - the part that remembers her songs and stories and all the things she taught him - dies as well._


	2. Chapter 2

When he opens his eyes again, it's already morning, which means he must have fallen asleep. Which also means that nobody cut his throat during the night. How very pleasant.  
  
Sunlight hits his face, makes him blink, and when he rubs his face, he pauses, feels moisture on his fingers. He must have cried. He wonders why.  
  
There is no time to organize his thoughts, however, for the rest of the small group has already gathered outside and Thénardier is yelling at them and his wife is doing the same. He shakes his head and hurries to get up, suppresses a small sound of pain as he stretches. It appears he is a little out of date. He's just not young anymore. It is not even necessary to look in a mirror to know that. He feels the stubble on his cheeks and neck, recognizes the way his hands look - they are strong and made for working, but they also are the hands of a man who has already left his thirties behind by far. They are the hands of a stranger, of a man who is nothing like he is now. With a last sigh he shrugs his shoulders and leaves the small building.  
  
A heavy hand lays down on his shoulder, and as he turns his head inquiring, he sees Montparnasse's smiling face in front of him. "You're coming with me today."  
  
"Am I?"  
  
Montparnasse winks at him. "With me, you'll learn the quickest. That is, if you don't behave like a complete idiot."  
  
"Learn what?"  
  
"Oh, you'll see." And with that, he turns and leads the way with quick and bouncing steps, hands in his pockets, not even look over his shoulder if he's followed.  
  
Which is not necessary at all. Of course he follows. He has nothing else to do, nowhere else to go.  
  
-  
  
The town is already singing the sounds of busy people. There are people everywhere, surging through the streets to get to work, to their appointments, to wherever they need to go. He sees well-dressed women chatter in small groups, sees laundresses carry heavy baskets, sees them smile and hears them talk and giggle despite their hardships. He sees mothers grabbing their children by the hands so that they would not get lost in the crowd. Men are on the way to work, sell their goods. A boy waves a newspaper around, shouts the newest headlines ("Barricade battered! Student agitators taken care of!"), a baker loudly advertises his goods. Beggers scurry through the crowd, stop wealthy-looking people to ask for money and food and -  
  
He flinches as he watches a Gentleman beat a beggar with his cane. He wants to interfere, wants to impose law and order, like it should be done (And why hasn't someone else already? Is that not what the police should be there for? To help those in need of need, regardless of their class?), but Montparnasse curls long fingers around his wrist und drags him along, hisses at him that they should mind their own business, that they have no time for this. "Everyone has to look out after himself, isn't that so? Every man forges his own fortune, isn't that what they say? And the two of us forge ourselves a little fortune now."  
  
Just as he wants to inquire how exactly that should work, Montparnasse lets go of his hand and bumps into a man in a fine coat. Both lose their balance, involuntarily pull each other to the ground. The gentleman curses, complains in very colourful language about how disgustingly _outrageous_ this harassment is. Montparnasse helps him up, all the while apologizing profoundly - and when the gentleman walks away in quick strides, coat billowing in the faint breeze, he forgets his wallet that resumes lying on the ground, lost and forgotten.  
  
He picks it up, closes his fingers around it - it is heavy and jingling promisingly - and turns too look for the man to return his wallet to him.  
  
"Ah, you're a fast learner," Montparnasse says with a smile and takes the pouch off his hand. "You'll be useful, I can already see that." He smiles once more, and when he does, it seems somehow fake and unreal, as if there is a joke Montparnasse understands and he does not.   
  
Though, to be honest, it does not matter at all. There is only one important thing right now: What just happened was not right. And he vows to make sure it won't ever happen again.  
  
-  
  
They part ways to - as Montparnasse calls it "work more efficiently" -, which is anything but inconvenient for him, really. Elsewise, he might have had to put that little 'trick' that Montparnasse taught him to good use. Which he won't do. He will never steal, he swears to himself, he would rather cut off his own hand than put it in a stranger's pocket.   
  
Since he has nothing to do for now, he uses his newly acquired time to take a look around and to take a look at the people around him. The more he gets to learn about other people, the more he believes he might possibly find out about himself. His way leads him through the broad roads and narrow alleys of the city, across smithies and carpentries and bakeries (and the smell of freshly baked bread makes his mouth water), across merchants and customers and those at the very bottom of the food chain, those who lurk on the ground, who hope for even the smallest of leftovers - a piece of bread, a coin, a shiny button. They - the children of Paris - scamper through the town, a somehow working system of information and organisation. Applaudable. In a sad kind of way.   
  
He does not think that it shouldn't be like this, does not think how unfair the world seems to be. He knows that there needs to be done more than wish or dream in order to change the world.  
  
A loud yelp brings him back to reality, and out of the corners of his eyes he can see two men corner a woman, can see her struggle, defend herself from their advances. She kicks and spits and bites and her nails leave marks on their flesh.  
  
As admirable as her effort might be, it doesn't help her much, for they still overpower her. The one man clamps a hand over her mouth in order to silence her screams (and profanities, oh yes, the _profanities_ ). At the same time, he twists one of her arms behind her back (he can see tears of pain in her eyes, can see her turn pale).  
  
The other man only laughs and grabs her throat. "You don't bargain? Really?" A toothy grin appears on his face. "Well, girl, it's your own fault, then. We'll just take what you don't want to give us cheaper!"  
  
One hand slides underneath her skirt, and that is the moment where he manages to _unfreeze_ because he cannot simply _keep standing there_. He crosses the road, hands balled into fists, chin raised high. "You there!" he yells and wonders about how authoritarian his voice sounds. "Let her go!"  
  
Two heads turn in his direction. Both men grin. "What are you looking at, gramps?" one of them asks and the other one laughs. "You want the whore for yourself? Get in line!"  
  
His fingers twitch at his side as if they want to close around a sword. Much, much later he will wonder what that means. But for now, it's only about protecting her, the woman he does not even know and whom he should not even care about, because isn't this what happens to hundreds of women every day? "Let her go," he says one more time, calmly, sternly. He cannot protect them all. But he can protect this one.  
  
Something flashes in the afternoon sun.  
  
One of them has a knife. He lets go off her arm and attacks.  
  
He doesn't even know himself why he reacts the way he does. He simply knows what to do. He sees it in his mind. Just like he has been trained for this. It only takes a few seconds, then it is over. He dodges, his boots sliding loudly over gravel and sand, and dashes forward. His hand grabs the attacker's wrist and at the same time his fist connects with the man's side, most likely hitting his liver.  
  
The knife meets the ground, his attacker follows suit, collapses with a grunt. She takes care of the other one, first kicks his shin, then between his legs. Both men are curled up on the floor, wincing in pain (and he snatches the knife from them). Both men are smart enough to run away (and once more he wonders just where the police is, why nobody else even thinks of helping, why nobody _cares_ at all).  
  
Slowly, he turns to her, looks her over. "Are you hurt?"  
  
She shakes her head, adjustinging her clothes (and it's just now that he notices how wasted her dress is, how dirty she is. Make-up hides old and new bruises only faintly, and in her eyes, there is an expression that makes her appear older than she must be. Once upon a time, he thinks, she must have been beautiful). "Yes. Thank you."  
  
"It's all right."  
  
"No, really." She smiles a smile that does not reach her eyes. "I _am_ grateful. Though not grateful enough to give you a ride for free."  
  
He blinks once, twice in confusion, and when he finally understands what she means, he blushes crimson red. His eyes widen as he gesticulates wildly. "No! I wouldn't dream of it! I ... I have only done my duty."  
  
This time, she really does smile. "Your duty?“ She laughs, the sound is rich and warm. „There are not many men who believe in caring about others, least of all caring about about a woman.“ He thinks of a reply, but finds none, so hestayssilent. What this might say about him, he does not know, does not want to think about it. She shrugs, anyways. „Well then. Thank you, Monsieur." She grabs his hand to shake it, and when he draws it back, there is a shiny coin in his palm. It feels a little like a magic trick. "If you ever need help, Iwill try to do what I can. I owe you something."  
  
He watches her walk away.  
  
The coin in his hand is as warm as the piece of bread he recieves in exchange for it.  
  
And as he sinks his teeth into it, as he horks it down, as the rich taste floods his mind and senses, he even manages to forget the taste of the river for a little while.


End file.
